


sharing is caring (it can be fun)

by wistfulwatcher



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bonding, F/F, Fluff, Friendship, Sappy, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Swan Queen Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4398029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfulwatcher/pseuds/wistfulwatcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Just tell me something I don’t know. Like your favorite color.”</i>
</p><p>Written for SQW 5. Set a year after the season 4 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sharing is caring (it can be fun)

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh, this is three/four days late because I don't even have the ability to hit deadlines when it's my own event. But I got _something_ finished, and this is for Day 5: Best Friend Romance, and ended up with a little Day 1: Bed Sharing in there.
> 
> Unbeta'd, but a big thank you to iuterpi and rolling-in on tumblr for clarifying the use of mi cielo!

“Tell me something about yourself.”

Regina turns her head sharply at Emma’s words, eyebrow raising at the sudden request. “Excuse me?”

Emma’s slumped back into the corner of her couch, legs stretched out on the coffee table (Regina’s glares don’t put quite enough fear in her these days, it seems), and she’s picking at the label on her beer bottle with her thumbs. Her head is angled down watching her own movements, but she repeats, “Tell me something about yourself.”

Eyes narrowing, Regina watches Emma closely, an uncomfortable prickling sensation running up her back at the thought of _sharing_ about herself, even after all they’ve been through. Besides, “What is there left to say, Emma?”

Her throat feels thick with the unspoken rest of the sentiment: _You know more about me than anyone._

Now Emma looks up, looks over at her, and her thumbs pause in their movement. Emma’s eyes are a little wide, open, and she doesn’t seem drunk but she must be tipsy for her to look so vulnerable.

Regina tries not to scoff at the thought of Emma being the vulnerable one as she asks Regina to spill her secrets.

But Emma keeps looking at her for a while, and then she shrugs. Picks at the label again. “Not—I’m not asking for the big stuff. Just tell me something I don’t know.” Regina’s still staring at her, tucked into the opposite corner of the couch with her feet tucked between the back of the couch and the cushion beneath her, a glass of wine resting on her bent thigh. Emma licks her lips. “Like your favorite color, or something.”

“Why on earth would you need to know that?” Regina’s eyes narrow in confusion and the smallest hint of suspicion.

“Jesus, Regina,” Emma breathes out a laugh, and slips her socked feet from the coffee table to the floor. Angling her body toward Regina, she grips her beer bottle tight in her hands. “What could I possibly do with that infor—” she looks up at Regina and her easy smile fades a little as she quiets. Then, “I don’t know. It’s what friends do. Share.”

She can’t even open her mouth before Emma holds up one hand. “Or so I hear, OK?” A smile tugs at Regina’s lips, Emma knowing her too well sometimes (far, far too well, if she’s honest).

Emma doesn’t press again, just lets silence fall between them, and she starts picking at her bottle once more. The TV is on low in the corner of the living room and it’s relatively late; Henry went to his room almost two hours ago after their family dinner. If she were to ask Emma to leave, it wouldn’t be rude.

That being said, she’s not particularly against Emma staying for a while more. They rarely say it out loud, but after everything they’ve been through together (including sending their little boy to high school almost a year ago), they really are friends of some sort.

Regina licks her lips, and raises her wine glass slowly. “Blue,” she says softly, and takes a sip as she watches Emma watch her.

Emma doesn’t comment on her answer, but leans back into the couch again, and rests her feet back on the table. Regina doesn’t say anything, because they’re _friends_.

“Mine’s green, I think,” Emma says softly, and she must be a bit closer to drunk than Regina thought, for her to be volunteering this little heart-to-heart. Even with something as innocuous as colors.

She can’t help it when she prompts, “You think?”

With a shrug, Emma rolls her head on the back of Regina’s couch to look at her. “It changes, I guess.” Her eyes are shining a bit in the low light of the living room, and her lips start to tilt up with a smile. She looks soft and relaxed and it’s not how she knows Emma best but she thinks she might like to.

Silence falls between them again, and Regina wonders about Emma’s sudden curiosity. Regina’s looking down into her wine glass now but she can still feel Emma’s eyes on her, can see her head angled toward her in Regina’s peripheral vision, and it feels different than it would have a few years ago but no less intense. Possibly a little less unnerving. Possibly.

Her thumb runs over the curve of her glass and she must be tipsy herself to be considering it, but Regina wants to ask Emma a question of her own. Something little. It’s an unusual sensation, this desire to continue sharing with someone—with _Emma Swan_ no less, surreal even after five-plus years—but she licks her lips and turns her head to look at Emma.

And her eyes are closed, her breathing a little slower. Regina can’t tell if she’s asleep or on the cusp, but her stomach feels unsettled at the image. At Emma being comfortable enough here to feel at rest. At how little she looks in this moment.

At the way she has to bite her tongue to stop the casual insult on her lips because they may be _friends_ —apparently—but Emma Swan is still a disaster who fell asleep on the Evil Queen’s couch.

Regina watches Emma’s breathing start to grow even more steady and slow, and takes a long drink from her wine glass to stem the the way the unsettled state of her stomach seems to be rising higher, pressing against her sternum.

And the way her lips turn up more than necessary to take the drink.

She rises from the couch slowly, and sets her nearly-empty glass on the table beside her, before turning to look down at Emma, unmoved in her spot. Emma’s hair is loose, slightly curled today, and spilling over her shoulders. Long strands are looped behind her head from the way she’s rolled it against the back of the couch, and the empty beer bottle is still held lightly in her hand, label torn in several places.

With her tall boots resting in the entryway and her leather jacket on the hook by the door, Emma looks at home like this, socked feet and worn jeans and simple t-shirt. The thought, of Emma being at _home_ here, is ridiculous. She can barely even think of them as friends when Emma says the word, and yet she is undeniably a part of this setting, now.

Regina’s stomach is jumbled, she feels out of place and uncomfortable and somehow still at peace when she thinks about waking Emma. Running her fingers through her own hair she pushes it back from her face, and narrows her eyes a bit as she thinks about how she’s going to do this.

“Emma,” she starts softly, her voice sounding like thunder after the long moments of silence. Emma doesn’t stir, so Regina steps closer to the arm of the couch and leans down a bit, one hand propped on the furniture for balance.

“Emma,” she repeats, softer but closer, and when Emma begins to shift she has a sudden urge to reach out and brush her long hair from her face.

“‘m awake,” she murmurs, and Regina reaches forward to take the bottle from Emma’s hand.

“I can see that,” she tries to say sarcastically, but it comes out too soft, too sweet for her. For them.

Regina sets the bottle down on the coffee table and clears her throat. “Emma, it’s time to go home.”

Now Emma’s eyes open, slowly and heavy as she looks up at Regina. “Mind if I crash here?” Her question is thick with sleep and Regina hesitates. Because her instinct these days is to help Emma, the same way she’s terrified to realize Emma’s seems to be, with her.

But dinner with their son, even the two hours drinking together in near-silence afterwards, is nothing like this, this type of intimacy. Because Emma asking to stay, as innocuous as it seems for one night, feels like so much more. It feels like permanence and comfort and domesticity in a way they don’t do.

Regina pictures the morning, Emma slotting into their routine as Regina makes coffee and breakfast and sits down with Henry for a few minutes before school. She tries to picture Emma in that scene, taking too-big bites of egg and gulping down a cup of coffee that burns her mouth because she’s overslept and is running late to the station and how she’d ruffle Henry’s hair on her way out the door even though he whines every time she does because their little boy thinks he’s an adult.

The image is staggering. It’s rich and hot and feels so incredibly _tangible_ that Regina actually stands up and takes a step away from Emma.

Because—and she would _never_ in a million years voice this thought—the moment feels achingly close to want, too.

Emma is still looking up at her, trying to blink herself awake as she waits for Regina’s answer. She yawns, and barely covers her mouth for it before she shakes her head. “Nevermind, I can—”

“Alright,” Regina finds herself answering slowly, despite every conscious thought in her head directing her toward the opposite response.

Emma smiles, and starts to lean back, close her eyes. “Thanks, R’gina,” she kind of slurs with her sleepiness, and she moves her legs from the coffee table to the other end of the couch, probably still warm from Regina’s body.

“I have a guest room,” Regina says, and Emma just murmurs in response, clearly no intention of moving. “With a bed far more comfortable than this couch.”

“Mmm, this is fine,” she murmurs, and smiles a little. “Thanks, though.”

Regina eyes the angle at which Emma is bent, and breathes out slowly, nostrils flaring slightly with her irritation. “Emma, come upstairs.”

She smiles wider, but doesn’t open her eyes. “Your couch isn’t even close to the worst place I’ve slept, ’m fine.” Emma starts to tuck herself into the couch, crossing her arms and rolling to the side. Regina feels a streak of that familiar mix of frustration and a stubborn sort of care that she’s come to associate with Emma.

If she were anyone else, Regina would tug at Emma’s arm to get her to go upstairs. Instead, she poofs them.

In an instant they are in Regina’s guest bedroom, Emma on the bed and Regina standing beside it. Emma’s eyes flutter open, more conscious than she’s been in the past ten minutes, and Regina smirks.

“Why not just douse me in ice water?” Emma asks rhetorically, and rolls toward the middle of the bed to kick down the blankets.

“It’s best not to give me ideas, dear.” Emma’s eyes narrow at Regina’s response but there’s no fire to it. Instead she laughs weakly and flops on her back, sliding her feet beneath the blankets.

Regina starts to turn to leave, but hesitates. “Do you need anything?” she finally asks, and nearly immediately regrets it. Because Emma staying is an imposition. She is not a guest, despite the name of the room. Emma Swan is, and always will be, a woman tacked onto her life that she has grown to care for in an obligatory way.

It’s a thought she’s tried to convince herself of many, many times.

“What’s your favorite season?” Emma’s got the covers up to her waist now, and one arm tucked beneath her head as she’s turned on her side.

“Why do you have this sudden urge to play twenty questions?” she asks evenly, and crosses her arms.

Emma readjusts her head on her arm. “I just…” her eyes narrow like she doesn’t know herself. “What’s your favorite season?” she asks again.

Regina starts to grow uncomfortable under Emma’s stare, suddenly so much more awake than she’d been. The way she’s looking, it’s almost desperate, how she wants this answer. How she cares so much about this little thing that doesn’t make a difference, not in the grand scheme of things.

“Spring.” Emma continues to watch her, and Regina’s fingers curl over her side, gripping hard like she’s her own lifeline. “There’s something calming about the consistency of rebirth, I suppose.”

Emma’s focus grows in intensity on Regina, and Regina starts to step back, to leave. Because the way Emma is looking at her now, how she’s been looking at her tonight, it’s too much.

“Good night, Emma,” she says, and this time Emma just nods, lets her walk away.

She leaves the room and shuts the door softly behind her, and heads back downstairs. She’s not quite tired yet, and there’s this weird edginess she feels with Emma in the house. So she takes her time shutting down for the night; picking up their glasses, rinsing the dishes, loading the dishwasher. She turns off the TV and the entire bottom floor feels eerie and empty, but her house doesn’t.

Her house feels full. It feels warm.

She turns off the lights and checks that the door is locked and catches sight of Emma’s shoes sitting beside Henry’s (both kicked off haphazardly, of course), and then she walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water. She drinks slowly and she’s stalling, and she isn’t quite sure from what.

So she leaves the glass in the sink and heads upstairs, and can’t draw her focus off of Emma’s door. Eyes it as she passes to her room, and glances once more before she shuts her own.

Regina strips her button up and dress pants off, trades them for pajamas—after purposefully detouring past her nightgowns—and runs a brush through her hair a few times. And then she walks out of her room and across the hall and knocks gently on Emma’s door.

It’s foolish to do this for many reasons—including the fact that Emma is most likely already asleep, as this is the reason she’s staying in the first place—but Regina hears a soft “Come in,” and so she pushes the door open.

The light from the hallways casts a long shadow over most of the room, and she can barely make out Emma’s silhouette from her spot in the doorway. So she steps over the threshold and lets the door close gently behind her, a little edge of light illuminating the outlines of the room.

Regina feels suddenly uncomfortable with her presence, feels so out of place, but she nears the side of the bed she’d been on, and Emma hasn’t moved much at all. The blanket is pulled up higher on her side but she’s still facing Regina, head on her arm on the pillow. “Hey,” she says, and her voice holds none of the tiredness it had downstairs.

“What’s your favorite season?” Regina asks, and feels about five years old, talking to wild animals in the forest where her mother can’t see.

Emma smiles slow and soft, and her eyes drift closed like they had been on the couch. Like she’s sinking into the comfort she feels. “Summer.”

She doesn’t elaborate but Emma had waited for her answer so now she does the same. Regina feels awkward where she stands, but there are no chairs in this room and sitting on the bed beside Emma feels, well. It feels like she does when Emma calls them friends, like if she were a cat her hackles would be raised but instead she’s just warm and edgy.

“When I was a kid it was the easiest time to run from foster homes and be on my own. I could blend in with kids out of school.” Her eyes open slowly, and they look black in the darkness of the room. “Now though, I guess it’s just when I feel the freest.”

Regina hums in acknowledgement and understanding, and Emma’s eyes sparkle a bit as she says it. This is the most Emma has resembled the Dark One in months, more than half a year after they managed to free her from the curse. But there must be remnants of the physical darkness that clings to her, in the way she looks so mischievous when she says it.

It’s appealing and frightening at the same time, this reminder of everything that’s happened between them, of how close they— _she_ —came to losing Emma. The thought sends a shiver up her spine and she shifts on her bare feet a little to cover it.

“That’s all I wanted. I’d hate for this little game of yours to spill over into the morning,” she says coolly.

“What’s your favorite thing to do outside?”

Regina exhales loudly in exasperation. “Good night, Emma,” and she turns to leave. But Emma sits up, and reaches out and touches her wrist. Her fingers are gentle on Regina’s skin, a request, not a demand, and Regina freezes.

Because there is something compelling about talking to Emma like this. Something appealing in giving weight to the word _friend_ , and how ridiculous it is that these little things seem like the biggest intimacies when so much of their relationship is built on crisis.

Regina looks down at her, sees her sitting in the center of the bed with the blanket pooled around her hips and her curls twisted from the pillow already. And that feeling that was so close to want earlier seems to be back, to be pressing firmly against the center of her chest.

“Will two questions satisfy this sudden curiosity?”

“Five,” Emma bargains with a stupid smile, and shifts back in the bed so there is room for Regina to sit.

“This isn’t a slumber party, Miss Swan,” she warns, but finds herself taking a step toward the bed when Emma drops her wrist.

“Of course not,” she smiles sleepily, and suppresses a yawn. Emma puts one of the pillows up against the headboard and leans back, facing the foot of the bed. Regina is out of place like this, in completely new territory, and she hesitates for a long moment before she sits down beside her. The headboard is hard against her back but she doesn’t move to put her pillow up the same, instead leaving it pressed between her lower back and the frame.

Emma looks over at her and tugs her legs to her chest. “Well?”

Regina looks her over before she answers, and notices her bare feet, imagines her socks discarded on the floor beside the bed. Sitting beside Emma like this she can’t exactly see her well, just a pronounced silhouette from the streetlight shining in through the lace curtains.

“Gardening,” she says softly, and tries not to look like she’s fidgeting as she crosses her legs at the ankles.

“Huh.”

Regina looks over at the noise, and she can start to make out Emma’s features now that her eyes have adjusted. “Was there a wrong answer?” she asks, a little short. After all, it was Emma pushing for this little game.

“No,” she says evenly, and shakes her head. Leaning it back against the wall she adds, “just unexpected, I think. Mary Margaret said you used to be into horses.”

Regina scoffs. “You make it sound as though I’m a child with a sticker book.” It’s still dark, but Regina can see the way Emma smiles clearly. “If you would rather play this game with your mother—”

“Like your apple tree?”

Regina breathes out slowly. “Is that one of your five questions?”

“No.”

Licking her lips, Regina nods. “Yes. It’s relaxing. And rewarding. My father used to keep a small garden when I was younger.” Part of her would like to keep going, but a louder part makes it clear that this is more than enough sharing, even with her _friend_. “And yours?”

Emma doesn’t respond right away, so Regina looks over at her. “Running, I think. I was pretty good at it when I was younger.” Looking over at Regina she adds, “You know, before all the bear claws and grilled cheese and paperwork.”

Regina can’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “I think you more than make up for the down time with our weekly disasters.” Emma laughs low, but they’re so close in the full bed that it fills the space around them.

“Hmm,” Emma thinks, “favorite subject in school?” Her brows furrow, and then, “Actually what even _were_ your subjects in school?”

“You’re using one of your questions for a history lesson?” She clucks her tongue and it’s more playful than she should be this late at night, sitting in a bed with Emma Swan. But Emma nods and gives her that soft smile that she sometimes does and Regina relaxes a little. “I had tutors, mostly. A few classes with other children when I was little, but for the most part I had teachers come to our estate. I suppose literature would have been my favorite subject.” She hesitates, not sure how to continue, but Emma just waits.

“Though I was far more interested in alchemy, which my mother didn’t exactly—it was complicated.” They don’t talk about this—certainly not like this, in quiet moments where it’s voluntary—about her past as it relates to her path to become the Evil Queen. About the fact that she enjoyed aspects of it.

But Emma just snorts, and scoots down on the bed until she’s lying on her back. “You’re a science nerd,” she says, but her tone is light and almost affectionate. “I guess that figures.”

“Excuse me?” Regina prompts, and tries not to think about how much more comfortable she would be lying down as well. It’s not all that late but her back hurts against the headboard and there is something appealing about the mattress beneath her.

“Well you’re smart, obviously, and you can cook—I don’t know, I guess I’m just not surprised.” Regina warms at Emma’s reasoning.

“And what was yours?”

Emma bends one arm above her, and lets it fall back down to her pillow, hand resting at the top of her head. Her other hand falls with a smack onto her stomach, and she gently pats the fabric of her shirt. “Art.”

Her answer is short, and she doesn’t seem particularly inclined to continue. But then she says, “I was decent, actually. Had I gone to college I probably would have wasted my degree on Visual Arts, or Art History, or something.” She laughs self-deprecatingly at the thought, but there’s a look of loss that passes over her face that makes Regina think it wouldn’t have been a waste at all.

Emma doesn’t ask her another question, and she wonders if this is it. If Emma is done with this sudden urge and she can go back to her room. Instead of standing up, though, she starts to scoot down—as elegantly as possible—until she can lay down on her side of the bed beside Emma.

“I thought you said this wasn’t a slumber party,” Emma teases.

“And it won’t be,” Regina says with a quiet _oof_ as she settles into the bed. “There will be no hair-braiding or pillow fights or talks about boys.”

“No complaints from me,” Emma says a bit too rough, and it grows a little awkward between them. Because both of their relationships have dissolved over the past year and while they don’t do “girl talk” they both know it is a sore spot for the other. Rejection and loss are far too familiar bedfellows not to sting on their return.

“Besides,” Regina adds, moving them off of the topic, “if you’re planning to drag this conversation on for an hour I thought it would be best to make myself comfortable.”

Regina doesn’t look, but she knows Emma is smiling as she asks, “Favorite book?”

“Yours first, this time,” Regina instructs, and Emma laughs a little. Regina can feel the movement beside her.

“Ayn Rand, Anthem. You?”

Emma’s moving past her choice quickly so she won’t push. But she doesn’t like the implication, why it would resonate with her so much; growing up parentless, _nameless_ , no autonomy. Desperate for escape and challenge.

Regina tries not to look over at Emma. “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”

Emma bursts out laughing, and it’s pure joy. She clamps her hand over her mouth for a moment and then Regina does look over, smiles and joins in on the laughter. Henry had her read it a million and a half times when he was little, so much so that she still has it memorized.

When her laughter settles, Emma rolls over a little on her side, eyes still sparkling with humor. She doesn’t say anything but Regina can tell she recognizes the reason, her head still full of her past and a transplanted past, memories of raising their son forever entwined in her recollection.

“Ever had a nickname?” she whispers now, facing Regina, and she turns her own head on the pillow. They’re close, far closer than they need to be, just a few inches between them. But Regina doesn’t move.

Instead she raises a brow. “Perhaps you remember that I had several back in the Enchanted Forest.”

Emma shakes her head, and she’s serious when she says, “Those aren’t nicknames. You know what I mean.”

She looks up at the ceiling and rests one hand above her own head, mirroring Emma’s earlier position. Her fingers play gently with her hair as she thinks.

“It wasn’t exactly a nickname, but my father would call me ‘mi cielo’ when I was younger.”

“What does it mean?”

A wistful smile settles on her lips and her fingers still. “My sky, or my heaven.” She feels bare as she says it, utterly exposed. Emma knew Cora, knew what she was like, in some ways. But her father is still mostly unspoken to Emma, to everyone. It’s too much to discuss now, too heavy and too complicated.

Too dangerous. Because Cora was someone people could reconcile easily with her past, could use to explain how it was so easy for her to end up with Rumplestiltskin as an alternative. But her father was demonstratively loving in some ways and even thinking about their relationship is complicated.

“That’s beautiful, Regina.”

“It was,” she agrees easily, but her brows are still furrowed from her thoughts.

Emma doesn’t answer her own question, instead she asks, “Happiest memory?”

“Your initial questions were markedly more simple,” Regina murmurs, and strokes her hair back from her forehead.

“You had a problem with them, too, if you remember,” Emma teases, and Regina can see Emma’s hands settle on her stomach, out of the corner of her eye. “How about a happy memory?”

Regina licks her lips and stays still for a moment. Most of the ones that come to mind are from those first few years with Henry, when he worshipped and trusted her as only small children can do.

Instead, she finds herself saying, “Leaving Neverland.”

Emma laughs. “Yeah, I get that.” Her response is flippant, and Regina breathes a little slower, wants to clarify.

“When we were first leaving, and we gave Henry back his heart.” Her voice shakes a bit even at the thought, and Emma’s laughter has ceased. “It was the first time I felt as though I truly had him back since before you came to town.” Her words sound harsh but she doesn’t mean it that way, it’s not a dig. Not tonight.

She’s not sure if Emma can tell, so she looks over at her, meets her eyes as she continues. “It was the first time in so long that he looked completely relieved around me, like he knew I would protect him.”

“And you did, Regina,” Emma reminds her. Regina knows that, logically, but even the memory of almost losing her little boy is enough to put her on edge.

“Yes,” she agrees easily. She considers adding _we both did_ , but it’s late and she’s a little tired and so she lets herself be selfish about Henry in a way she is trying so hard not to be for him.

The words rest between her teeth for a while, but doesn’t break Emma’s eye contact. Emma barely blinks, just lets her gaze flick between Regina’s eyes in a way that would make her uncomfortable in any other moment. But there’s something calming about this little cocoon they’ve built, sharing not-quite-secrets in the dark, so close they can whisper.

Emma’s focus drifts away from her eyes, lower, like she’s watching Regina’s mouth. “What’s yours?” Regina asks, and it’s the softest sound she’s made all night.

“That one was right up there for me, too.” Emma’s lips curl up into a soft smile, and Regina needs to look away, so she focuses back on the ceiling. “Biggest regret?”

Regina can’t stop the amusement that tugs at her mouth. “That’s five, Miss Swan.”

“Fine,” she says, a hint of petulance in her tone, and the bed starts to bounce as she resettles onto her back. “Is this what friends are supposed to do?”

“This was your game, Emma.” She moves her hand from the pillow to rest on her stomach, her fingers lacing together absentmindedly. “And I wouldn’t know,” Regina adds, and she doesn’t turn her head to look at Emma this time, but she sneaks a peek out of the corner of her eye.

“Yeah, me either.” Her tone isn’t sad, or searching for pity. Emma is matter-of-fact in her response, and Regina warms. It’s confusing, feeling such kinship with Emma in a setting where they have nothing to distract them from acknowledging it.

So Regina answers. “My answer hasn’t changed from Neverland. I can’t regret anything from my past because it led to Henry.” She breathes out, prepares herself for her next words because they feel thick and heavy, even as they’re forming. “But I’m not pleased with how the curse affected your childhood, Emma. If changing that wouldn’t cost me Henry, I would.”

Emma kicks her feet around the covers, fidgety in a way she hasn’t been all night. “Like you said, it all led us here, so I guess I can make peace with that.” It’s the most they’ve ever discussed Regina’s role in Emma’s past, and she’s stunned to realize a weight has lifted with Emma’s answer. Her hair is tangling beneath her, but she rolls her head to the side to look at Emma again. She’s facing the ceiling as Regina had been, and with the light from outside leaking through the curtains, Regina can see the angles of her face, her long lashes when she blinks.

“And yours?” Emma stays quiet, and her brows furrow at Regina’s question. Her head jerks like she wants to look at Regina, but then she freezes, blinks again.

And the realization is cold, icy as it sinks into Regina’s bones. She wishes she were under the covers now, the silk of her pajamas too cool on her skin. But despite her chill she feels her face start to warm in some sort of embarrassment. _Of course_ , she thinks, _it’s rather obvious, after all_.

Regina breathes out and looks back up at her ceiling, and she strokes the knuckles of her left hand with her right. “Could it perhaps be the idiotic choice you made to tether yourself to that dagger?”

And then Emma does turn her head. She feels it at the same time Emma rushes out, “Of course not, Regina.” She knows it’s a mistake, but she turns her head to look at Emma now, and sees her watching her closely, a slightly desperate look in her eyes. “I would do it aga—”

“Don’t,” Regina cuts her off and flips her focus to the ceiling. Because this is too much. This isn’t some casual _friendship_ , not with the way Emma is looking at her. With the veracity of her words. And they’re both delusional if they think they can pass it off as such anymore.

The ceiling is blank, there’s nothing to keep her attention but she can’t look at Emma yet, so she closes her eyes and grits her teeth.

She should go back to her room, and let Emma sleep off this sudden sharing urge she has. But before she can start to move Emma has propped herself up on one elbow and is looking down at her.

Emma waits until Regina opens her eyes and repeats, “I would do it again, Regina. In a heartbeat.”

Her words are soft and her voice is hard and her eyes are so focused when she says it, and Regina hasn’t believed anything this completely since Daniel put a makeshift ring on her finger.

“Emma,” her voice catches and she really needs to leave. Because each second in this bed convinces her that this is less about being maybe-friends and instead something more visceral. It’s feels romantic but it feels platonic, too; she just knows it feels _deeper_ than how she understands friendship.

“Would you send me away with Henry again, and give us new memories? Take yourself out of ours?”

“That’s not fair,” she says softly, and she treats Emma’s words like an accusation because they are for them; their acts of kindness toward each other are as much ammunition as they are altruism.

Emma’s eyes are dark again in color and shadow, but she knows they don’t hold vestiges of the curse, not in this moment. “You would do it again, Regina. I know you would.”

Her voice doesn’t waver with the sentiment, doesn’t falter in her conviction because she does know Regina, in all the ways that matter and all the ones that don’t.

Regina isn’t sure if it’s the last traces of alcohol in her system, or the stillness of the room around them, or the way Emma’s hair has fallen over her shoulder to brush against Regina’s chest. But in a moment she’s leaning up until she can press her lips against Emma’s.

And Emma kisses her back _immediately_ , like she’s been waiting for this since they started talking. Maybe longer.

Regina’s head is already spinning with the taste of Emma and the feel of her free hand sliding along her neck to tug at the nape there, hold her close. Her lips are soft and warm against Regina’s, and when Emma’s lips start to part Regina slides her hand to Emma’s back and pulls her down.

Emma is slight but all that lean muscle has made her hard, and Regina feels the weight of her with a gasp. “Sorry,” Emma mumbles pulling back, but Regina just shakes her head and does nothing to stop the mischievous smile she can feel growing on her lips.

“Not at all,” she murmurs, and runs her hand down Emma’s strong back to rest at the curve of her spine. They’re a breath apart and Regina hesitates, waiting for Emma to kiss her. Because Emma had parted beneath her so quickly, and her hands had found their way to Regina’s neck and waist instantly, but Regina needs to know that this is—

Emma’s lips are on hers again, and Regina’s fingers dig deeper into her spine. The fabric of her t-shirt is thin but Regina still wants to feel Emma’s skin so she tugs at the hem of the shirt until she can splay her hand across Emma’s lower back.

She’s hot. Damn near a furnace, actually, and Regina moans into her mouth as she feels Emma’s hand slip from her waist to the side of her thigh.

Sliding her foot on the bed she raises her knee, and Emma falls into the cradle of her hips. Her fingers press harder on Regina’s leg, thumb rubbing at the curve of her hip bone through the silk, and she can’t stop her hips from canting forward.

“Christ, Regina,” Emma breathes out a ragged laugh, parting their lips and instead pressing their cheeks together lightly. Regina can feel the heavy, hot breath ghosting over her ear, and she shivers.

She waits a moment, tries to catch her own breath, because what they’re doing is sudden and stupid and must be the product of Emma’s ridiculous game.

Before she can voice these thoughts Emma pulls back, sits on her heels like Regina’s legs aren’t still bracketing her hips, and pushes the hair away from her face. “What are we doing, Regina?”

Rejection burns hot and heavy in her stomach and she schools her features as she sits up herself, leaning against the headboard. “Nothing,” she waves a hand, and then pushes her own hair back from her face. “It was a—”

“I mean, this isn’t exactly how I pictured this happening, did you?” Regina’s dismissal of their kiss dies on her tongue as she looks at Emma, face open and eyes shining and hair a tangled mess around her shoulders.

“No,” she starts slowly, not sure where this is going and already guarded in these new waters.

Emma licks her lips, and reshifts on her knees. Her hands are braced on the kneecaps and she’s looking down. “I mean, I think it was pretty obvious we were headed here,” she looks back up a bit, head still angled down in that way she does, that look that Regina is so familiar with now; guarded and nervous and bracing for rejection, but _wanting_. “Someday. Maybe?” voice lilting upward like she’s not so sure anymore.

But Regina can’t help but agree, knowing what she does now. Knowing how Emma feels beneath her fingers and tastes on her tongue. Because the second she kissed Emma it started to click, that _deeper_ she felt that was equal parts desire and connection and comfort and trust, only identifiable in hindsight.

Emma’s still looking at her from beneath her lashes, and Regina leans away from the headboard, sliding one leg beneath the other. “Yes, I suppose it was,” she whispers in the quiet room, and reaches out for Emma’s hand. And because she’s been willing to share tonight, she opens herself up one last time and asks, “Is that something you want?”

Emma swallows. “I—” her lips press together as she looks at Regina for a long moment. Regina’s trying to school her features like she used to be so good at, wanting but not willing to put herself out quite so boldly as the silence makes her doubt herself.

But Emma must still be able to read her because she breathes out, “Yeah,” and squeezes Regina’s fingers.

This isn’t a slumber party—Regina shudders at the juvenile phrase—but she feels just as young when Emma slides a bit closer and adds, “A lot, actually.”

And again when she has to press her lips together to stop the girlish smile.

Emma does nothing to hide her own and then she’s tugging on Regina’s wrists—a firmer request, but a request nonetheless—and brushing her lips to Regina’s once, twice, and then kissing her deeply.

The fingers on her wrists tighten briefly before Emma opens her hands and slides her palms up to Regina’s elbows, and then higher until they’re splayed against her back. Emma’s palms are warm through the thin silk and the difference makes Regina shiver, her lips parting with a small gasp.

Regina’s hands settle on Emma’s thighs, fingers digging into the lean muscle. “Regina,” Emma breathes, and one hand slips up to the base of her skull to tug lightly at her hair until there’s enough space between them to open their eyes.

It’s still dark in the room but they’re close enough for Regina to see more of Emma’s features; the sharp lines of her nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, the angle of her jaw. Features that had been exaggerated and emphasized as the Dark One to make her look colder, crueler.

But Emma’s fingers stroke along Regina’s nape and she licks her lower lip nervously and this is truly Emma, all soft touches and hesitance and self-doubt. Sliding her hands up to Emma’s hips, she pushes slightly until she sits back further on her heels. “Do you want—”

“Yes,” Regina whispers into the small space between them, and pushes Emma on to her back before straddling her waist and following her down with a kiss.

“Good,” Emma smiles when they part, and Regina starts to slide Emma’s shirt up her stomach and over her breasts. She slowly drops her hands from Regina so they can push the shirt up and over Emma’s head to the floor.

The movement pushes Emma’s hair out until it’s fanned beneath her, and it’s a little surreal. She’s thought about Emma like this before—perhaps not this _exactly_ , but close enough—but in private moments far, far away from any expectations of reality. And certainly not the way Emma’s hands settle softly on her hips, or the way she’s looking up at her like this is something that should be bolded and italicized.

The majority of her thoughts on them—in a physical sense—have taken place in moments of frustration or anger or desperation. Not comfort, and connection. Not in her guest bedroom with Emma’s thumbs slipping beneath her pajama top to touch her gently, or with her eyes intense with something other than passion.

“You OK?” Emma asks when Regina stills above her, and her eyes are furrowed in concern. Regina hasn’t felt this free and safe and wanted in a long time, and it’s been even longer since she’s had all of those things at once.

Instead of answering she holds Emma’s gaze and bends back down, eyes only closing right before she presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Emma’s breastbone. It’s not much contact, at least not close to what they will be doing soon, she hopes, but Emma’s back arches as she grazes the flesh with her teeth and Emma slides her hands fully beneath Regina’s top now to grip hard at her hips.

“Christ,” she moans, and Regina can’t help but move her hips a little at the sound. She starts to chuckle at Emma’s reaction but the sound dies on her tongue as Emma pops the bottom button of her shirt open.

Emma undoes another, and another, and Regina slips her hands under Emma’s back to pop her bra open and puts her mouth on Emma’s nipple as the fabric hits the floor. “Shit, Regina,” Emma’s back arches more, and Regina takes her other nipple between her fingers to playfully tug.

Half of the buttons on her shirt are undone, but Emma’s concentration falters when Regina starts move her mouth down and down and down until she’s popping Emma’s jeans open.

“You dress like a teenager,” Regina scoffs, taken out of the moment a bit as she tries to pull the skintight jeans down Emma’s legs.

Emma snorts in response, and slides back from Regina until she can turn to sit on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, you sure seem to hate it,” she murmurs, and stands to push the jeans off before turning back around to face Regina, now alone in the middle of the bed.

Regina’s eyes narrow, though she imagines it loses some of the authority when she’s sitting with her top askew and her lips red and swollen. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Taking a step back to the bed, Emma smirks. “Sure, play dumb Madam Mayor,” she teases, but she pushes Regina on to her back and is straddling her before Regina can respond.

And now she does finish with the buttons, slipping them through the holes quickly and popping one in the process. “Emma,” Regina warns, but it’s too breathless to be taken seriously and she can tell Emma knows it by the glint in her eye.

“I could say I’m sorry,” Emma starts, and sits back on her heels, thighs on either side of Regina’s hips. “But I think we both know I’d be lying,” she adds, and parts the top to bare Regina’s naked chest before her.

Emma swallows hard and her eyes seem to get hooded, and Regina feels herself grow wetter. And then Emma’s mouth is on hers, her tongue brushing over her bottom lip before she’s trailing kisses from the corner of her mouth to her jaw to her ear.

“Oh, god,” Regina bites her lip as Emma’s teeth and tongue tease just below her ear. When Emma chuckles, she feels the vibration like a motor and she slips her hands up Emma’s back to her neck to hold her there a moment.

Emma’s tugging at her pants now, and Regina does her best to lift her hips but Emma’s moving down her neck and she’s so sensitive there she’s finding it hard to concentrate.

“Do I need to stop?” Emma asks and thank god it’s rhetorical because Regina would be embarrassed at her lack of answer.

Instead she tugs at Emma’s hair and rolls them again so she can lean back and focus long enough to push the pajamas down her hips. “No stopping,” Regina smirks, and she slides off of Emma to drop her pants onto the rest of their clothes.

They’re both bare save for their panties, but it feels like nothing with the way Emma is taking in every inch of her. “Come here,” Emma says softly, but it’s gentle fingers on her wrist for a third time and the decision is Regina’s to make.

She leans forward and Emma tugs her down until they’re on their sides in the center of the bed. It takes no time at all for their legs to intertwine, for Emma’s hands to move from her arms to her breasts to her stomach and back to her waist. It’s beginning to feel like it’s their natural place, intimate but grounding, and Regina smiles contentedly against Emma’s mouth.

Regina’s growing breathless, and hot, and frustrated after long minutes of Emma’s fingers softly making their way up her side and back down, teasing at the lace band of her panties and then skirting up her thigh and over her ass.

“Emma,” Regina pulls back, and their eyes meet. “If you don’t touch me soon I’ll be rescinding the offer for you to spend the night.”

Licking her lips, Emma looks at Regina’s mouth and back up, her fingers skirting the band of Regina’s panties again. “Well given an ultimatum,” she whispers, and presses her fingers to the front of the lace as Regina angles her thigh up to press between Emma’s legs. “Shit,” she hisses, and her hips grind down at the same time that she begins to stroke Regina through the fabric.

“Harder,” Regina grits out, body already thrumming from the teasing and kisses and—if she’s being honest—Emma’s presence.

Emma’s hand stills and Regina’s eyes fly open, but Emma’s just shifting them closer, tugging at Regina’s panties until they’re down by her ankles. And then her fingers are pressing against Regina’s wetness, two fingers slipping over her clit as she leans forward to nip at Regina’s neck again.

The pressure of Emma’s fingers is heavy and constant and Regina is so keyed up she realizes that she’s already close. “Fuck me, Emma,” she gasps, hips starting to cant forward without a rhythm as she grows desperate to come.

“God yes,” Emma says into her ear, and her hot breath tickles at the same time it drives her even closer to the edge. She’s all around Regina suddenly, with her mouth below her ear and one hand sliding between them to tease at her nipple, and her thumb pressing against Regina’s clit as Emma slides two fingers into her.

Regina’s hands are still on Emma’s back, her fingers are curling in so hard she must be leaving bruises, and Emma’s still straddling her thigh. They’re completely connected in a dozen different ways, and—Regina feels foolish to think it—that mysterious something between them isn’t one thing, but _everything_.

When she comes Emma’s name is on her lips—softly, they aren’t the only two in the house after all—and Emma’s lips are pressed to her jaw. Her body is blessedly boneless after, and she doesn’t try to move as Emma slides her leg off of Regina’s to settle on the pillow beside her.

Emma hasn’t come yet but she’s just as breathless as Regina, and more than the orgasm, that thought brings a flush to her chest. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t how most slumber parties go,” Emma says on shallow breaths.

“Then it’s a good thing this isn’t a slumber party, as I’ve made clear several times,” Regina looks over at Emma on the pillow beside her, and her chest tightens at the brightness in Emma’s eyes.

“I suppose you’re gonna go back to your own bed, then,” Emma says, and her voice wavers the smallest bit.

“I should, or Henry might wonder,” she cuts herself off, and Emma looks back at her. Neither of them are the clingy type in a relationship—the opposite, in fact—but Regina isn’t inclined to leave yet, and Emma seems oddly vulnerable, bared before Regina in more ways than one.

“But I suppose this not-slumber party can continue for a while longer,” she says silkily, and leans over Emma, slipping her foot against Emma’s calf. Her hand slides down Emma's side until she's teasing at Emma's boyshorts the way Emma had stroked her. She knows her eyes must be as dark as Emma’s have been all night when she smirks. “After all, friends _share_ , I hear.”

 

 

 


End file.
